


Stealing Back My Destiny

by phyreblade



Series: Destiny [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2018-04-14 09:04:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4558779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phyreblade/pseuds/phyreblade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain Gaibriel Duncan has been alone for years. He's still seeking what he lost, what they stole from him. He is determined to find his own, his family, and to never be caged apart from them again. He'll win his freedom, he'll take everything back that they took from him, and he will never be broken. This story follows the Smuggler story line from SWTOR, and it is the third story in my Destiny series. Gaibriel is a male scoundrel who romances Akaavi Spar. Other player and NPC characters and classes will make appearance throughout the tale, as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Caged

**Author's Note:**

> Gaibriel is one of the two younger brothers of my Legacy characters, and like each of my characters he's survived tremendous adversities and pains. Please be aware, this story will include instances of child abuse as well as substance abuse and major depression among the characters involved. But Gaibriel is a real survivor. And he will win his freedom.

               

* * *

Gaibriel lowered his small chin, tucking Camiel's head into the warm cocoon of his throat. His sister whimpered again, and he felt her fear, her sheer terror that skittered there between them. She was sending him waves of distress that worked to heighten his already tight, distressed muscles. So he tightened his arms around her, trying desperately to calm her and to hide from the reality of the meandering discussion between the two wealthy men across the expanse of the courtyard.

He glanced up towards the sky, watched the path of the planet’s sun, Ch'hodos' red sun that moved slowly across the seemingly burning sky. His arms still burned from the so-called medicine their owner had injected him with yesterday, but it didn't stop him from clasping Camiel even closer to him. He wanted to scream, to rage and cry. But he manfully bit his lower lip, bit it hard.  Until he felt the wash of blood against his tongue, too.

Anything was better than showing the lunatic that kept pumping his body full of … whatever it was -- well, showing Tirk his work was having any kind of effect on his body wasn't allowed. Borias Tirk didn't _deserve_ that much satisfaction, not when Gaib's skin felt so tight and tingly. Not even when it seemed like fire sizzled up and down his spine and his eyes burned brightly from Tirk's surgeries. He sensed that bad things would happen if the man thought there was anything like success coming from those efforts.  Although he could hear Tirk talking to the stranger now, and convincing Tirk to give up on them wasn't proving any better, either. Tirk might have been the worst owner they had ever endured. But now Gaib wondered how much harder it could become. Even if he could hear Tirk whining how much they were both "abysmal failures, too. Gaib nearly snorted perversely to hear Tirk complaining.

Just five months it had taken them, moving so carefully every time the man entered the room. Communicating only in that special way they had over the years, with Camiel whispering into Gaibriel's head rather than his ear for anyone else to hear. And otherwise presenting themselves as the supposedly normal children they always seemed to be. Just so long as Tirk never realized how extraordinary Cam really was.

No. He _had_ to keep his sister safe, Gaibriel thought. So long as their master relied upon their unique genetics, so he could safely experiment on one twin and use the other as a comparison, then Cam would be all right. Because Gaibriel was strong enough, damn it. He would just bide his time and endure the pain and the upset that came when the supposed scientist played around with some new and increasingly fancy drug or surgical technique. Tirk imagined himself an amazing scientist, who rivaled the Sith, even. And he was utterly fascinated by the mutations occurring among the local wildlife on this planet from the changing atmosphere. "If manipulated just so, perhaps humans could be made better, stronger ... it only requires the proper motions." Gaibriel bit his tongue after every muttered nonsense the man made, though. Better Tirk muddle with Gaib's system. So long as he avoided Camiel.

He snorted softly as he lifted his head just enough to glance over at Tirk and his strange visitor. The man looked over at him just then and Gaib frowned as he watched his cold, glittering eyes, the way his gaze moved up and down their small forms huddled there in the cage outside under the red sun overhead. So Tirk could study the effects of the growing levels of radiation on their little bodies. Gaib didn't think the strange beast of a man was interested in the radiation, though. There was something, some looming sense of darkness in him – the man looked hungrily at them. It scared Gaibriel, until the anger thrilled even harder along the line of his spine.

Gaibriel didn't _like_ the stranger. And that was even before Camiel tugged against his back, where her arms were wrapped tightly. Her whispered breath moved across his awareness just then: " _He's a bad man, Gaib. He wants … I don't understand it… but it's not right_." Gaibriel felt every one of the muscles in his body tighten even more. He thought feverishly over what he could do, how he could protect her. But there wasn't anything, just nothing. An image flashed in his memory -- home, a dark world, with rain sleeting down while explosions filled the air and took his family apart, killed his mother. Killed his sister. Killed Kastiel, so she was gone. Kas would've fought the stranger as hard as she possibly could. She wouldn't have given up, not for anything. That’s why they lost her, he agonized.

No Tirk brought the stranger towards the cage, and he grunted roughly until Gaibriel peeked over Cam's head at him. Tirk was a big man, a burly human with skin tinged grey from neglect.  Probably after hours spent over baking chemicals and concoctions in his labs. His black hair was thin and long, gathered together into a tight ponytail along the back of his head. His eyes looked nearly reptilian as they glittered down at the twins, too. Like like green rocks set deep in his angular face, and maddened as he declared aloud, "They're a matched set, Rend. Look at them. Such delightful toys, hmm?"

The stranger smiled tightly back at Tirk, "I already told you, that I have no interest in boys."

Gaibriel felt himself start to pant, as he realized they stood to be sold yet again. Sometimes they were lucky, and they went to masters who only paraded them around like pretty decorations. Other times they went to a master who wanted small, slight figures to work in cramped spaces. They had worked at several construction sites scattered across the various worlds claimed by the Empire, anyway. But Tirk was the worst yet, using them as mere fodder in his efforts to study the changing atmosphere of this red world. But at least he was a known component in their frightening world, Gaibriel thought.

No, any new master was a terrible chance, a potential terror and something that could break them completely. It's why Camiel usually studied them, so that they might cozen their way out of the notice or attention of a bad one. But they lacked the time and chance for such a ploy this time around. And Camiel was scared of this one, enough that Gaib was almost shaking by the time the two men ambled close enough for him to hear them. His mind spun crazily as he tried to figure the best way of saving them from this new potential master, this "Rend".

Rend. Like something that ripped you apart. Like tearing a thing to pieces. Gaib shuddered lightly as his sister whimpered into the hollow of his throat again.

"Oh, but the boy's eyes - look at them. So pretty. Like gemstones, don't you think?" Tirk was smirking now.

Rend gazed at Gaibriel critically, sliding his gaze down and over his thin, lanky frame. He muttered sourly, "Please ... He's already growing too big, even starting to fill out. How old is he? Ten? Eleven? Soon, he won't even be worth a glance, no matter how pretty his eyes are." He squatted down, leaning closer as he tried to see Camiel. But her face was buried against Gaibriel's neck and she managed, somehow, to twist herself closer to her brother. Rend snorted, "I can't even see her. Pull her out of there."

Gaibriel huffed, as he watched Tirk nod towards the guards who almost cantered towards the cage. He spun around, thrusting Camiel into the corner of the cage and using his own small body to block them from reaching her. She was whining loudly, almost squealing. Gaibriel grasped at the cables that made up the rungs of the enclosure, trying to anchor himself against the hard fingers that grabbed at him, tried to rip him away from his sister. Camiel started crying, hard, until her tears made his neck feel cold and wet. Gaib hissed, biting at any fingers that came too close. Someone smacked him in the back of the head, viciously hard. He started yelling and screaming threats, swearing he'd bite their fingers off, tear out their eyes -- anything! -- if they even touched her.

It was only useless noise, in the end. The guards took to kicking him, hard and solid along the lower part of his thin back. Until his skin was mottled with new bruises and he started seeing stars. He felt blackness gathering along the edges of his vision. He yelled out one last time just as he felt Camiel yanked away from him, heard her screaming. He cried, "No! No! Cam! Nooo!" But she was gone.  And Gaibriel could only lay there, blinking tearfully towards the men who held his sister up into the air, high enough the man called Rend could view her comfortably.

"Pretty enough. Her eyes don't match his. Pity, that. It cheapens her value," Rend meandered in a circle around the girl child, who dangled there in the hard, steely grip of the guards there in mid-air.  She was crying great gasping breaths as she tried desperately turning and twisting her small body, tried to get back to her brother. Gaibriel was the one whimpering now, watching her from where he lay sprawled.

"Come now, Rend. Take them both, the price is good."

Rend glanced back at Gaibriel. _The little biter_ , Rend thought to himself. The last thing he wanted was to fight off a vicious little monster during his trip. Alderaan was such a boring locale, regardless. So little time for excursions and some spots of fun. Best to get real entertainment along the way, rather. And once the toy was broken only toss it out an airlock, he supposed. He mentally shrugged as he turned back to face Tirk again, "No. I'm not looking to break in a fighter, Borias. I simply don't have the time, nor the inclination. You're lucky I'm willing to buy the girl, she's so small and tired-looking. How long has she been kept out here?"

Gaibriel felt painful distress pulling against his body as they argued over prices, wondered if something was broken or bleeding inside of him. He tried dragging himself closer to the door of the cage, whispered desperately, "Camiel ..." She looked over, saw him fighting with everything in him to get to her. Fear trilled through her, terror over the sense of doom filling her.  She knew very suddenly there was no way to stop whatever bad thing was coming. But her brother would keep trying; Gaib wouldn’t stop fighting until he was killed right there on the sandy, red ground of this world. She whimpered, beyond horrified at the thought. She would rather die herself than let her brother lose against such terrible odds.

" _Please, Gaib. Stop now_." He looked at her, shook his dark head tiredly. She bit her lip, looking at the weasel face of the man hoping to buy her.  She knew he was the worst man she'd ever known. The sense of wrong-ness coming from him was immense, incredible - it almost overwhelmed her. But Gaib would not give up and she knew it. She depended on it, had always depended on him.  So now she dug deep down into herself and whispered the promise to her future self.  That she would survive, that Gaib would survive. Even if survival came at a heady, awful price.

And it would. She knew it, felt it in that strange way she often felt things.

Then Camiel looked towards her brother again. She felt tears edging down her dusty cheeks to leave wet trails against her face. " _I love you, Gaib. Don't ever stop, just find a way out of here. Till no one can hurt you again_." She felt the horrible realization rip through him, just before she reached out to him through their bond, and wrenched hard. Hard enough he jerked back against the pain, and fell down into the darkness of unconsciousness. She was still sobbing, still watching him lying there in the dirt of that cage as they dragged her away. And then she couldn't see him anymore.

* * *

His mind was a dark place, full of the darkest, most terrible quiet, broken only by ugly moments that screamed through his mind -- panic, fear, and pain that came to him when she couldn’t stop from crying and shrieking out against whatever was happening to her. Not that she let him see, either. She never let him understand what happened. But he hated that much, too. He screamed aloud the way she was screaming into his mind, even. Hours passed. Days. He felt himself splintering and threw himself against the walls that surrounded him until his skin was covered in bruises and lacerations and the guards pulled him down and tied him up.

But he couldn't stop. He cried and shrieked endlessly, over and over, sobbing pitifully there in the cage he hated so much, alone, alone.

Until she finally broke. He felt it happen, felt her mind starting to snap. So she stopped, stopped it all, just stopped _everything_. She was going away, going away. Somewhere he wasn't able to follow, she tried telling him. He must not follow ... She threw up one final wall, one single last and desperate defense against the pain. Then everything was dark, and everything in his mind was just ... silent. She was gone far away from him, so frightened, so terrified that she closed her mind off from anything, everything. She didn't even hear him anymore. Just lost in blessed, comfortable silence far away from it all.  Far away from him. She saved herself at the last possible moment.

And that saved _him_ , too.

But he was still there.  
Alone.


	2. The Verd'goten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: there's trauma and violence against a child described in this chapter. Please bypass if you are uncomfortable by such descriptions.

Akaavi panted roughly as she dropped her horned head down, so that her chin rested against the thick, leathered edge of her chest-plate. Droplets of sweat slid down along the slender curve of her jaw and fell down onto the dusty surface of the ground under her feet, then. The arid environment was proving the Badlands well-named, at least. Her system was being taxed to its very limits. Dehydration was trying to beat her right now, she knew it. It's why her skin felt tight against the bones of her face and hands as she worked at digging through the dry soil; like her skin was just as papery and thin as the dust that moved through her fingers, even. And she was actually panting! As if she'd become some damned dog that needed to keep its body temperature from rising any higher. But Akaavi ignored the sluggish fatigue dragging against her muscles to push aside another handful of dirt, and she licked her chapping lips, too.

Akaavi's gaze jerked upwards when she heard the wild shrieks from one of the local Howlrunners, though. She canted her head sideways as she judged the direction and distance of the canine predator. But she quickly judged the animal was far away from her own location, and hardly worth the word threat, even. Those shrieks meant it had located a bit of prey already, and since Akaavi wasn't the one being munched down by its bony, sharp jaws she determined herself well secured from any sort of attack from the creature. For now, at least. She only returned her attention to locating moisture enough to keep her own self alive, rather.

So she returned her vibrospade back into the hole, using the blade to reach through the hard-packed grit that protected the roots of the miser-plant. Some of the other _adiik_ preparing for their _verd'goten_ had rushed their preparations, and Verin even laughed at her when he caught sight of Akaavi carefully packing the spade into her knapsack. "A worthy warrior would know how much water to carry and how to ration her supplies well enough to keep fighting," Verin insisted. He meanly prodded the anxiety that always sat like a sour stone in the center of Akaavi's belly. Because he knew Akaavi would rather die, than ever show herself to be anything less than worthy. But she didn't really respond to the mockery, either. She shrugged oh-so-slowly towards Verin, rather, "A warrior always approaches challenges with the correct tools in her hands. _I_ will not be unprepared." Verin just grunted at her derisively, then.

Akaavi knew Verin counted on his  _buir_ to remain close to him throughout the  _verd'goten_. That way he could be yanked to safety if need be. But Akaavi's _buir_ was adamant that her own  _verd'goten_  be a real one, though. Damen Spar never offered his _adiik_ anything less than real challenges and rough fights that were designed to mold and shape Akaavi into a warrior. And he was blunt as she prepared to set out towards the Badlands. He'd nodded over at her from across their cooking space the night before she went, telling her, "If you rely on accommodation now, you'll come to depend on it. Someday, your ability to beat an enemy without needing to suckle against your mother's tit might prove the difference between living. Or dying without honor." Damen always knew the best way to form words that fired Akaavi's determination, at least. Even if his softer assurances were so rare and far-coming, rather.

So now Akaavi knew Damen was farther away than the blasted Howlrunner. She snorted under her breath, thinking she could depend on the beast catching her before she would believe Damen might come swooping in to save her from anything so simple as a dry, parched throat and a bit of damned dehydration. But he had made her strong enough, and now she only needed to _show_ him what he'd made her. She just needed to rip the moisture from the roots of miser-plant all on her own! Or die in the effort, perhaps. Either chance would prove better than seeing a sign of disappointment in her _buir's_ eyes, though. Everything she did, was designed to make just a smidgeon of pride glitter in that amber-fiery gaze that Damen only barely and then just sometimes allowed her to glimpse. That's what Akaavi _lived_ for!

She pushed the last mound of dusty soil aside, to bare the knobby root deep under the miser-plant, who's dry, spindly branches extended into the air far over her head. Akaavi settled back on her haunches, so her rear-end rested against the wall of the hole she had finished digging. She rested, counting her breaths as she slowly wiped droplets of sweat from the corner of her mouth. Then she bent over again. She brushed off the root, looking for the thing's water-filled organs. They looked like a series of bulbous bumps that protruded up and down the length of the root, actually. She spent several long minutes boring her way into the chunky knobs using the very tip of her blade, scraping away the surface until she could puncture one of the organs with a single aluminum rod.

Akaavi licked her dry, chapped lips eagerly, right before tumbling down into the hole to adhere her mouth around the end of the rod and pull the moisture into her mouth. The water tasted slightly bitter and not a little bit sour. But the liquid soaked into the tender insides of her mouth, and she vigorously drank the water for several long moments. The water continued to dew up towards the end of the rod even after Akaavi pulled her mouth away, too. So she quickly yanked her jugfilters around to fill the containers with the rest of the liquid that slowly seeped out from the miser-plant's root, and she fastened the containers back to her knapsack before clambering out from the hole.

Akaavi took time enough to fill the hole with dirt again, too. She planned on finding more water in the same spot, eventually. 

Now she raised herself up and looked out towards the pale brown of the rock outcropping, and she sniffed to clear her nose from the dryness and dust. Akaavi shook her head sharply, so the braided length of brown hair that fell down between her head-horns slapped against her collar. Then she jumped out into a loping run, grunting softly as rushed towards the mound of rocks she could see off in the distance. She was comforted by the weight of the _beskad_ blades bouncing against her hips as she moved. But her pace was barely rough, if only because the ground under her feet was that dry and even. She jogged along easily, letting the softly-tooled leather soles of her boots slide across the dusty surface of the ground to avoid making pattering sounds that would travel far through the air. She didn't want them to hear her coming, anyway. Or to scent her, either. So she approached the rocky hilltop from downwind.

Akaavi reached the rocks nearly halfway through the day. She scooted among and around the rocks -- hunting the targets so, so carefully as she moved out slowly, carefully onto an outcropping that overlooked the den. The pack was making yipping noises as they gamboled around the entrance of the burrow with their new liter of pups. Akaavi counted them all precisely, making sure to catch sight of each one of the creatures. Three puppies were playing friskily among nine adults, and Akaavi sighed as she realized these bloodsniffers were more than ample for a typical pack. Obviously, this one succeeded in carving out a territory where the hunting was good, because so many animals would have needed an extraordinary supply of blood. And they were healthy, too. Even in the haze of the early afternoon their pure white eyes were gleaming as they watched their pups sporting with each other, with their short legs pumping and kicking to hold onto one another and batting at each other. Oh, she couldn't see bones or other remains of prey around the area but the back of the cave behind the pack was murk-ridden, too. Akaavi smirked lightly as she considered the dark circle of the cave's opening.

Then she raised herself up onto her haunches, so that more rivulets of sweat ran down from her scalp along the back of her neck and down under the edge of her chest-plate. She could feel the dampness running along the curved line of her spine as she hunkered there and breathed so slowly. She closed her scarlet-colored eyes, listening, listening -- to the sound of the dry wind moving among the hills of rocks and the rush of dust it pushed up from the ground, to the yips of the playing puppies and the hums from the adults watching them, and even the pulse of the sun's rays from overhead. She listened for long moments, and longer then. Until she heard the sound she was waiting for ... it came, and Akaavi smiled slowly when she heard it. She shifted her weight onto the heels of her boots and then she lifted the device up to manipulate the settings. Until each one of the blinking lights on the surface were the correct color, of course. Then she bent her arm backwards, aiming carefully and counting, counting, before lobbing the spherical charge up and over her head.

Heck, it wasn't a powerful explosive.  
She could have manipulated it to make it stronger even.  
But she deliberately kept it smaller, to better focus the blast.

She did manage to catch the puppies by surprise, too. They actually stared down at the round thing when it plopped into the dust right smack between them. It was bleeping softly, so that one brave little pup reached out with a single paw to thwack  its side. They watched it, as the lights on the top turned red for a single, long second. The puppies whined aloud one last time. That's why the adults lifted their heads to look over at them right then, and they saw the explosion just as it happened. It ripped suddenly up and into the air and smoke and dust expended out hotly in a single, swift wave out from the blast. The blaze quickly reached the entire pack. It burned their coats in a woosh of heat and they started howling from shocked pain. All of the animals started running in crazed circles around the small clearing in front of the burrow, trying to find some kind of course or direction through the heat and the smoke. And that's when Akaavi jumped down from her perch, clutching a _beskad_ in each one of her hands.

She swung the blades in cool, terrible arcs of death and motion, whirling around the circle of panicked bloodsniffers like the most grim kind of dervish. It was worse, because she didn't make any noise as she twisted and wheeled among the creatures and smoothly avoided the sharpness of their claws, too. Her blades were all that whispered a song. The most precious whistling tune as the razor-sharp edges lashed out and bit into the skin and bones of the reeling bloodsniffers. The dying animals squealed and screamed all over again, and ropes of blood flew out to gloop against Akaavi's own frame. Some of it rose up into a fine spray, until it actually misted against the low-hanging tendrils of her brown hair and dripped from the tips of her horns, even. Then she whirled her slender frame one more time, swinging her _beskad_ with another wickedly curved flex of her wrist that sent her primary blade along the chest and throats of two more bloodsniffers. Both animals gurgled through the gore that jetted out from the rips Akaavi made into their necks and they keeled over into fleshy lumps on the ground.

She was breathing hard, then. Thick droplets of blood clung to her horns and slid down her chin to splatter against the front of her chest-armor. Distantly, she thought of the colors she would use to make the armor more distinct; or maybe she could use her trophies from this fight to earn credits enough to obtain better armor. Akaavi thought red would be an admirable color -- to match the blood she spilled for her own _verd'goten_. But she felt a very feminine impulse, too, to help highlight her natural coloring. Reds might clash with the brownish tone of her skin, even while emphasizing the scarlet of her eyes. She would need to practice with the tints, Akaavi thought.

And that's when the first heavy-set growl rumbled out from inside the dark depression behind the blood-strewn dust of the ground. Akaavi smiled grimly, watching the gray curls of dusty smoke ringing the space slowly, slowly part around the grossly large head that eased out past the den's opening. _Oh, you're much bigger than I imagined_ , Akaavi thought. Bloodsniffers had an almost reptilian look to them, like there was some kind of lizard somewhere in their genealogical history that made their hides looked layered with scales more than fur or hair. But their pups gestated inside their mothers like any other mammal, with their sharp claws tucked close to their tender bellies as they were being born. They developed a bony spike at the end of their tongue almost a year after they were born, using milk teeth until then to feed. But the females needed an enormous supply of prey's blood to help nurture even one pup, let alone three. So Akaavi had known the male of this pack would be impressive enough, considering the number of Kamarians killed over the last month.

And this certainly wasn't a mother that faced Akaavi now.  
This was the pack's alpha, rather.  
And he was _pissed_.                                                                                      

Akaavi stood in front of the looming figure, the smallest, nastiest little smile curving her ripening lips. Her own body was still growing, so that her arms and legs remained gangly and rawboned. But her upper arms were just starting to thicken into a more rounded, plump musculature, too, and her thighs were filling out from regular and routine calisthenics. She huffed, drawing in her breaths guardedly as she tried gauging the motions the alpha was going to take. How was he going to jump at her? Would he shift to the side, firstly? Or come at her head-on? She transferred her weight back and forth on the balls of her feet, hefting her _beskad_ blades against her sides as she tried compelling the animal to move, taunting it aloud, "I'm faster than you. Want me to prove it?" The alpha growled at her, snuffling as it shook its huge head hard enough that heavy bands of drool flew out in sticky cords around his head. It was rearing up to produce a resounding roar so that its chest tautened and stretched, the muscles there bunching.

Akaavi bounced up and down on her heels, watching him ... watching ...

Then she suddenly jumped nimbly fast and away, sprinting towards the open desert past the edge of the pack's den. She ran! Her blades clinked against the leg-plates that once covered her mother's thighs, that Damen helped her fasten onto her own legs before she leftf. Akaavi heard the alpha roaring out from behind her as she moved and its claws scrabbled across the ground as it leaped after her. But she jumped deftly over the smoldering heaps that used to the alpha's females. She felt the front outsoles of her boots hit the dry dust of the ground beyond the ring of dead bloodsniffers before she dashed past the alpha's reach. He screamed towards her back, sliding slightly through the clots of blood in the dirt. But then his sharp claws gripped the dirt itself and he lurched to follow her, dust flying up around his stubby legs.

But Akaavi was smaller than the bloodsniffer and she moved faster than he did. She had practiced for weeks, for days and long, long hours of jogging, sprinting through the arid countryside that surrounded the varied _vheh'yaim_ where they gathered together. By the time she was ready to face the pack and its alpha her legs and feet had become callused and used to the hurried pace she knew she'd need. So that now she _ran_!

She raced back the way she'd come, dodging the scraggly miser-plants in her way and then even the place she gathered water earlier in the day. She moved and she ran, and the alpha came after her. He thundered and howled every time he came oh so close, only to have Akaavi sprint just that much farther out of his reach. Then he would snarl and rage in a renewed rush to follow her. Akaavi laughed, slowing just enough that he was able to snap his jaws close to her backside. Then she reached behind her with the flat end of her _beskad_ , slapping the side of the alpha's head hard enough it sounded loudly with a dull thunking sound. The alpha yelled out angrily as his head was flung aside. And she leaped out of his reach all over again. The alpha roared again in purest frustration as he tried leaping at her again, but he lost his balance and tumbled sideways, his large head slamming roughly against the ground. By the time he was back on all four legs and could clearly see the small female thing that destroyed his pack she had managed to dart several hundred feet ahead of him.

Akaavi was grateful enough that a bloodsniffer's limbs were such squat, stubby things. It kept their ability to rush after a prey more limited than the average pack animal. So they relied more on overwhelming their quarry through sheer, brute strength and the sharpness of their claws. But a zabrack's speed was nothing they could match, and the alpha was increasingly agitated as he tried catching this one zabrack now. But he wasn't willing to let her go, either. The alpha lost his entire pack to the creature ... ripping out her throat had become a sheer, blind  _need_ \-- it was the only hunger he was capable of just then, even.

The alpha wheeled his massive bulk up another rise of rocks, determinedly chasing down the warm, fleshy little creature. But as he reached the top of the brief rise, the alpha caught sight of her down below him. Akaavi was breathing roughly, standing in the center of several large rocks that towered over her head as she waited for the alpha to find her. She held both her _beskad_ at her sides, rolling her shoulders intermittently so she could keep the weapons properly balanced in her hold. Then she slapped them, roughly hard, against her leg-plates. The clinking sound was reminiscent of the sounds she made killing the pack's females, the ringing clang of metal against metal as she spun and weaved among the bloodsniffers. Now the alpha stomped both his front paws against the ground in front of him, and he threw his head up into the air to roar as awfully as he was able.

Akaavi only yelled back at him, though. She screamed a heady challenge up at the beast, and then she gestured imperiously with one hand. The flash of sunlight off the edge of her beskad whipped up through the air, to shine brilliantly into the alpha's silvery-looking eyes in a brief, gleaming glare for only a moment. The alpha growled, before hunkering down, his tail whipping behind him as he watched the smaller female creature below him. 

Then he jumped!

His paws pounded against the ground as he rushed down the brief incline towards Akaavi. She waited, her feet tapping softly along the ground as she judged the pulse of his footsteps under her boots coming closer, closer. She so, so softly leaned her head sideways, to better glance over her shoulder. Because she picked her ground, here, very carefully. She only needed to wait. She waited, waited -- just a little bit longer, to make sure the timing was just that perfect a thing ... And then Akaavi dropped down, and so much fast! Her blades clattered against the arid, rocky soil as Akaavi lay completely prone on her belly, and the alpha snarled loudly through the dryness of the afternoon.

And that's when the howlrunner finally surged through the air over Akaavi! It came from behind her, from where the bloodsniffer never looked. Right smack in its hunting territory, where Akaavi heard it earlier in the day. Now it flew through the air and across the zabrak's back to crash solidly and straight into the front of charging bloodsniffer!

The impact sent up another thunderous blast of sound through the entire area, as the alpha's chest smashed into the bone-faced carapace covering the howlrunner's yawning face. Both animals were massive specimens, but the blow was shockingly effective in pushing the bloodsniffer backwards. The howlrunner ended up on top of the alpha, and he didn't wait for the bloodsniffer to recover. He had only just earlier finished a meal, and his belly felt full and sluggish. But this was his own territory, and bloodsniffers were dangerous interlopers at the best of times. So now the howlrunner lashed out at the bloodsniffer with one huge, meaty paw, knocking against the side of the bloodsniffer's snout and bashing its jawline into pieces. Akaavi heard the awful crunch of breaking bone from where she remained still and flat on the ground. She lifted her head only to watch, carefully. So she could avoid earning the notice from either beast, actually. And her crimson-tinted eyes narrowed when the howlrunner bent its thick head over the bloodsniffer's wilting frame. The howlrunner growled, just before it bit harshly into the crunchy remains of the bloodsniffer's lower jaw.

The howlrunner gripped the jaw and tongue of the bloodsniffer between its own terrible teeth, and then it ripped its head backwards and up towards the sky overhead. Blood sprayed above them both, as the bloodsniffer's entire tongue came loose and went flying away to land with a sodden plop on the ground nearby. The howlrunner spun its head back and forth in a horrible arch, then, shaking the blood from his eyes to better view his opponent. But the bloodsniffer was only gurgling, choking on the blood that filled his throat. He never even had a chance to do more than look up at his killer. The howlrunner lifted its snout, shrieking a victorious cry up into the air! And then he bent quickly towards the bloodsniffer's throat, smoothly ripping out the soft, fleshy parts there and shredding the last of the bloodsniffer's tenderest veins and arteries. The alpha died quickly then, and the howlrunner stomped both its paws imperiously against the corpse. It looked like it was dancing, there!

But Akaavi only noticed the howlrunner's jig just long enough.  
Just long enough to know his attention was entirely focused on his prize then.  
And that's when she went running at him!

Akaavi leaped through the air, landing resoundingly on the very backside of the howlrunner. It yowled as its hindquarters cracked under the crush of Akaavi's boots, its head flinging backwards as it cried. But Akaavi moved quick. She raced along the thin spinal column she could discern through the howlrunner's sparsely furred back. Akaavi lifted both of her _beskad_ out to her sides then and turned them inward, so the blades were pointed towards the beast's head. She yelled out a terrible challenging cry as she thrust roughly fast and the tips of her blades penetrated the soft flesh of the howlrunner's head, just behind its facial carapace. It looked like the points seemed to nearly kiss gently against the sides of the creature's head for only a moment. But Akaavi kept pressing the blades forward, until they penetrated the howlrunner's skin and then through the bone, too. The howlrunner twitched, and the animal briefly tried to shake Akaavi from off the top of his own neck. Then the tips of her _beskad_ pierced the animal's brain.

And Akaavi yelled out as she finished jabbing the blades all the way through the howlrunner's skull.

* * *

 Damen Spar actually reminded Akaavi of the trophies she took, as he stood looming over her with that stony, deadpan expression on his scarlet-colored face. Mostly because of his hulking size. Damen was big and muscular; he was strong like the alpha bloodsniffer was and wildly prideful like the howlrunner. He didn't smile at her; there wasn't a hint of swagger in how he stood there or looked at her. But Akaavi was determinedly brash enough, to stand there straight and stare back at him just as stone-faced, too.

She faced him still covered in the dust and muck of the _verd'goten_ she made, clutching the tails of all three bloodsniffer pups she dragged behind her when she returned to the _vheh'yaim_ where they made their home. The rest of the meat she brought with her was being tallied and added to the clan's foodstuffs, but she kept the spiked tongues for her own _buir_. The soft muscle of a bloodsniffer's tongue made a hearty meal that Damen enjoyed eating, anyway. Akaavi spent much of the last few miles trekking back to the Mandalorian village considering the stew she would make for him. Or perhaps a large plate of _tiingilar_. He might appreciate the spices in the latter.

But now he barely glanced at his blood-splattered _adiik_.

Damen only glanced over Akaavi's head, towards Saxin. Saxin would have stood stoically nearby throughout Akaavi's return to the vheh'yaim with such incredible prizes. Hells, she destroyed an entire pack of bloodsniffers and then a gigantic howlrunner, too! So Saxin would cheer Akaavi, normally. He would cry out her name and swear she carried the pride of the Manda in her blood. He did that for all the _adiik_ , and he argued with Damen that an _adiik_ needed to know her  _buir_ was proud of what she did.

But not today. Today Saxin only lifted his own _adiik_ up from the ground and he cried. Verin never won the chance to call himself a warrior. He went out on his _verd'goten_ and he died from the heat of the Badlands. The planet of Kamar destroyed him and now Saxin mourned. Damen saw him, and then he looked back at Akaavi. He grunted as he watched her draw in a deep, long breath. Akaavi never even wiped the dried flakes of blood from out of her hair before she went to meet her father.

Damen looked at her. He only looked, letting his amber-colored eyes peruse her from the top of her pointed horns down to the boots she was wearing on her feet. He didn't say anything, not a single word of pride or honor. He didn't boast or brag, didn't even call her a warrior or say she was finally grown. He certainly didn't claim her as his own child. He just looked at her.

Then he turned around and left her standing there.

* * *

**_Five years later ..._ **

He didn't care.

That's what he told himself as he lay watching the sun over head slowly descend into a more sullen darkness.  
See, he snorted. Even the sun goes away and leaves you all alone. With nothing. Not even a bit of warmth you might call your own.

He hung his head down, sniffing back the thick snot that had run down from his nose when he was screaming the loudest. The skin over his stomach burned madly. Like it was on fire, like the sun had drifted down from the sky and settled right there on the tenderest parts of his belly. Just above his hip. He pressed both his hands against the bleeding mess, and he bit back another whimpering moan of pain as he tried yet again to squelch the steadily dripping blood from the cuts.

What a joke. He was all carved up, like some bleating animal or a dumb beast of burden. And all because he insisted that stupid bit of fabric was his own. They mocked him meanly then, " _Yours? Are you serious? Nothing is yours! Because you're nothing. Just a damned bit of flesh and bone we toss down the holes!_ " You'll remember that much, is what they told him. When they held him down, and when they jerked his tunic and thin undershirt up and out of the way … that's what they told him when they started cutting him.

He didn't look down now; he didn't try to catch sight of the lettering they put into his skin. What difference did it make, after all? There wasn't anything of him that was worth that much to anyone at all. Not even his blood. Gaibriel only buried his face into the rough remnants of his pitifully thin tunic laying in a scratchy wet mess against his lanky shoulder. Although it wasn't enough to clear his face from the spittle and mucous that ran down from his nose over the bottom half of his face. And he definitely denied any of the wateriness on his face was really tears.

Crying was a blasted waste of time, he thought. It didn't stop anything or anyone from hurting you, when you cried. Half the time, it just made them more intent on whatever hurt or abuse they were heaping onto your skin. It's when you cried that they knew it was working. That the pain and distress was breaking you. Gaib figured it was better to laugh to laugh in their faces, because then you beat them at their own stupid game. That's how you showed them you weren't bowed down or bowled over. Laughing at them was how you _won_.

He'd rather laugh. So they'd know he didn't care!

The blood on his stomach was drying. Figures. They didn't even manage to kill him. Just carved their marks on him, grossly laughing the whole time. Stupid idiots ... they probably weren't big enough or tough enough to face down a rat-faced slob like Uxe with the news of another dead slave, hah! Miloh Uxe -- Gaib thought the man's name was funny enough, that he told him of the worlds where dim-witted animals were called Oxen. But Gaib won Uxe the most prizes from the ruins, too, so Uxe typically yelled and sneered at him. Even when he made jokes and laughed at the man towards his backside.

But Uxe's men weren't so easily managed. Gaib's amusings only ever managed to fire their tempers and garner their meaner attentions. And today, they happened to notice him fingering a bit of torn fabric he kept from Camiel's tunic after they ripped her apart from him. Bastards!

He sighed as he glanced down towards the damage on his belly. So quickly, because he really didn't want to see the marking they made onto his skin. He bled terribly the first hour after Elo Ostin cut him with the red-hot blade. Then he huddled against a broken rock wall after they dropped him back down onto the ground. They just left him there to bleed and cry and moan intermittently. Elo  laughed as he stood over Gaib and watched him jerk his legs back towards his stomach, curling into a ball as the pain flashed and burned and roiled, right before he twisted his head to the side and vomited in a seamless rush onto the dusty ground. Elo was always the easiest one to antagonize, too. So touchy about his title of slave warden, was Elo Ostin. Oh, and Gaib really liked needling that particular touchiness of his, too. Only not so much, not anymore. Not with the blood dripping down his tired frame. The bleeding is what made him bawl and bleet like a sorry bovine creature, actually.

But watching Gaib lose the contents of his stomach made the warden laugh even harder, too. Elo knelt down next to Gaib's bleeding form, chuckling cruelly, " _It's an 'M' … For your owner, mind you. So that every time you see it, you'll remember you are an owned thing. Only a thing! That's there no such thing as 'yours'. There's only 'mine'. Because that's all you are! You're just a thing for someone to call 'mine'! And that's all you will ever be!_ " Gaib cradled the bleeding wounds on his stomach as Elo stayed kneeling down next to him, laughing up at the other pair of men he was entertaining with his cruelty right then. And they all laughed when Gaibriel's great big blue eyes shimmered and shattered into dullness as they slowly, steadily shredded the brief bit of cloth he kept tied around his skinny wrist normally.

Funny, that it was their ripping apart the cloth from Cam's shirt that really broke him. Hey, it was just a cloth. It wasn't even so much a thing that helped him remember his twin, either. Just a dusty, dirty piece of cloth he kept ever since they took her away from him and sold her off. And even while they were ripping the fabric into tiny pieces, Elo and his buddies derided its value. _A worthless rag_ , they jeered. "See," they mocked him. "As cheap and baseless as your own self, and hardly worth anything at all." That's when they tore the dirty triangle of fabric apart, scattering the threads all around his head and face so that the shredded pieces actually adhered to the wet snot running down over his chin. Then they laughed and taunted him for long, long moments.

Eventually though, they went away and left him there. Gaib only lay there, sniffling back his own tears and nasally snot and some blood, too. He was all alone. Even the sun's light was running away, leaving him behind. Alone. Gods, he was so tired of being alone.  His breath hitched. Stopped. He tried drawing in another breath. But it caught against his chest, and it froze there. He hiccuped and then coughed. He began wheezing, actually writhing against the dusty surface of the ground as he grew even more desperate. Until finally … finally air pushed into his lungs again. It was a single breath. Then another. And slowly the attack passed, leaving him gasping there against the hard rock that pressed hurtfully into the skin of his back.

Now he was exhausted, as much as he was bloody and pained. Damn it to the Chaos thing that pissed off all the Sith! Gaib bit his lip, though, and he looked down at his stomach. A rough whimper escaped him as he pulled against the part of his shirt that covered the bloody mess. It had stuck there, though, and pulling against the fabric just made more blood wash down over his lower abdomen. So Gaibriel stopped his pulling and he rolled his head away to stare out over the increasing dark that covered the heavy silence of the nearby pens. He used to wonder why they locked the slaves inside cages, when running out over the ruins was so much worse. Stupid slaves ran. Because the dark hid huge monsters -- huge slavering beasts driven mad by the magics the Sith used and left behind there in the broken rocks and stones of the place. They were horrible things that loved to snack on even the brief bones and skin of the most foolish slaves, the ones who ran.

But tonight … tonight he wondered if  _those_ slaves were the stupid ones. How much more stupid was it, to stay? To sit there and bleed and fucking hurt this much, always knowing that tomorrow wouldn't be any better. That the sun would come up and he would only be bleeding again. From some other wound, perhaps. Another cut, or a slash of a whip, or a blow from a cudgel. Something worse, even. So why keep fighting it? It wasn't like anyone cared whether he lived past the sun's rising, anyway.

"Gaib? You there, Gaib?" Shen's face suddenly loomed in front of him. Big, round eyes and pale-colored. In the light of the day Shen's eyes were gray. But in the dark, the orbs were large and white-looking. At least that's how they looked to Gaibriel. Shadows were muted things to him, so that they looked all gray and white maybe. It made it so that he could see people and animals moving around, even when it was dark. It was only greater distances that really obscured things from his sight. But Gaib really didn't like telling anyone so much about his strange sight, either. If Uxe knew he had such abilities, he would try using him even more often maybe. Or he would sell him off again and maybe to some owner who was even more dangerous. Or harder to laugh at, at least.

Shen was muttering as he fell down onto his knees next to Gaibriel's huddled frame, "Ah, dang. Gaib? You're bleeding like one of those animals we might string up for eating there in the back of the pen."  Gaibriel smiled slowly then. Because he didn't really care, mind you. He assured Shen, "But I'm not good enough for eating, either. That's how plain worthless I am, heh?"

Shen shook his head and he reached down to move Gaib's hands out of the way. So he could better discern the damage. He leaned his head down so low, that his nose was nearly buried into Gaib's stomach. Because he couldn't see in the muggy darkness so clearly as Gaibriel could, at least. Shen muttered sourly to him as he looked down over Gaib's wounds and knocked his hands aside again, "Don't. Just let me see so we can get you fixed, Gaib."

"You can't fix it. They made sure the mark will stay like that forever. Fuckers ..."  Gaib swung his head away from the other boy. He ignored Shen as he went about replacing the dirty length of tunic he'd pressed against the cuts with some semblance of clean cloth. As clean as a pen filled with slaves could manage to keep, anyway. In the dark now, the cloth actually gleamed bright white. But Gaibriel wasn't interested in any promise of healing.

He. Didn't. _Care_.

Not anymore, he thought. Gaibriel stayed sullenly silent every stumbling step, as Shen pretty much carried him back towards the cage where they normally huddled through the night. But it was a shumbling, rambling course they made together, with Gaib's lanky frame leaning heavily against Shen's skinny-assed side the entire while. Shen was looking for their smallest bit of safe space. Hey, slaves could only barely carve out shelters in the rocky outcroppings. Mostly they just huddled together as close to the rocks and caves set into the cliffsides as they could manage, trying to hide from the beasts that trundled out looking for meals once the light disappeared. Shen only went looking for their own pitiful group, of course.

Old man Kinzer hummed with approval when the two youngsters appeared in the pen's doorway, crooning, "You found 'im, huh, Shen? Good on you."  The small group of men and boys gathered around Gaibriel as they lay him down there in the center of the brief space. Kinzer inclined his head, silently ordering one of the others to seek out something close to a medicine-giver. In the camps, that was usually one of those slaves most inclined to dole out dust and spice. But some of them were good at fixing torn up flesh and broken bones, too. Gaib even followed them around, watching and listening to them working.

Now he didn't care. Not if they fixed him. Certainly not if they refused.

Kinzer started talking to him, but Gaibriel only half-listened. He only stared away towards the wall, away from the men who kept trying to help him. Kinzer told him, "We saw that son of a bitch start in on you, Gaib. Ostin was itching to do damage to someone, anyway. I heard tell that Uxe refused his request to visit one of the local towns 'for personal time', he called it." Kinzer sighed loudly, "That means some fluff in the town stayed in one piece, all because Ostin had to remain here. So he took his frustrations out on you, instead."

"Not so bad a thing, that." Yirry was the slave who took to snarling suddenly when the others shot him dirty looks, "Come on! Gaib's young and he'll heal. But the last time Ostin got a hold of a female in town, she ended up choking to death on her own blood after he beat her that badly."  Gaibriel didn't miss Kinzer's harsh expression as he looked up from the deep red cuts against Gaibriel's stomach. Four lines, slashed hard into the soft flesh, there. Blood was still oozing thickly from the injury. Gaib wondered bemusedly as he looked down to watch droplets of blood sliding down his skinny hip, just how much blood could one half-starved slave boy contain in his body? But Kinzer broke Gaibriel's attention after snorting roughly, "Shut up, Yirry. That's no comfort to Gaib, here."

But Yirry was right. Gaibriel would've said so, too. Mostly because he typically broke through the various arguments among the slaves when they became disruptive or likely to get attention from the wardens, using humored responses that heartened the slaves from their fears and their worries. But his jokes and laughter almost always offered surprising sagacity, too, that the slaves responded to almost naturally and normally without hesitation. They respected Gaibriel, even young as he was. Hells, given time Kinzer imagined the slaves would follow Gaibriel even more directly, too. He had that way about him, anyway. They listened to him and already, to boot. Kinzer figured that's why Elo Ostin kept after him. Ostin wasn't that much stupid, that he didn't realize young Gaibriel wasn't going to be controlled that easily in the long run.

But Kinzer was surprised when Gaib stayed quiet now. The boy only lay there, seemingly uncaring as he stared off and away from the gathered men. Kinzer frowned as he finally noted the unusual stillness that marked Gaib's expression. Like he'd never spoken a word in his life, even. He very nearly confronted Gaibriel, as if demanding the boy say something witty and clever could work a miracle. But then there was some minor commotion at the nearby doorway, a small rush as the closest thing to a healer that could be found in the pens came tumbling inside.

Kinzer scowled as he considered the snuffling figure of the oldster. Pyle's dust-stained upper lip was obvious even in the low light of the dang pen, anyway. Kinzer growled lowly towards him now, insisting, "Where's Kevan?"

"Kevan's deader than dead, actually. Hey, I heard his bones crunch! The damned fool tried to save one of the littler ones, out there in the southern ends of the ruins. He didn't even manage that much before whatever-it-was ate him, too," Pyle chuckled as he told the story. Kinzer's frown only deepened, though. He glanced down towards the still silent figure of one of their pen's own "littler ones", thinking how important it was to the slaves to keep the youngsters safer. It certainly didn't surprise him that Kevan died trying to save one of them. The men seemed to think the death of the younger slaves in the pens ruined the lot of them. As if saving the youngsters made them all better, somehow. But Kinzer believed there was real value to this particular boy, too. Even if he could never explain the impulse to keep Gaib from the dying that pervaded each one of the pens, either.

Now a heavy silence fell over the group, several of them shuffling uncomfortably as they waited for Kinzer to make a decision. Hells, K inzer might have even then sent Pyle away. Because he certainly didn't want him handling the boy. Gaibriel was only weeks from turning thirteen, although you wouldn't know it. Malnourished the way so many of the younger ones were, it would prove a miracle if his body actually lengthened into the flush of healthy adulthood. The boy needed food, loads of it. Solid, hot nourishment to fuel his bones growing and his muscles firming. He certainly didn't need to be laying there on the ground, losing the last bit of his hope. Just like he was losing so much of his blood as it dripped down onto the damn dirt he was laying on.

Kinzer snarled towards Yirry suddenly, "We'll get some clean blankets for him to lay on, at least. It's bad enough he'll have to last through the cauterizing, now. But his bleeding's got to stop." The other men jumped to obey Kinzer's directions. But Pyle shrugged disinterestedly, "Not sure why you're worried about his hurting. We all hurt, here. All he needs is some medicine. Shove it down and he won't even care how much more you hurt him, mind you."

Gaibriel turned his head, looking up at Kinzer as the old man's face tightened. He tried to tell him, to say he already didn't care. What was the point of avoiding more pain? It hurt. It would always hurt. Always ... What reason was there for him to avoid a little more pain now? Or a lot, even. It simply didn't matter. But Gaib didn't say anything and then it was too late. Because Kinzer finally jerked his head, agreeing. And then Pyle was leaning down over Gaibriel, his dirty-looking face filling his vision.

"Breathe, boy. Deeply. Take it all in, and nothing will hurt for a good long while," Pyle insisted.

Gaib felt something hard pressed against his nose suddenly. He coughed and sniffed in a startled gasp, and then he coughed some more. Kinzer was crooning again, trying to calm Gaib's panicked coughing and the way he shoved against their hold on his arms and legs. But then he felt it. Warmth was spreading through him, all through him. No pain and no worry. It all slid away in a wash of sweetest euphoria. Like warm golden light filling him up inside. It all just … went away. He didn't even feel it and just kept humming happily as they methodically burned the edges of each long, cruel cut on his stomach and hip closed.

He honestly didn't care anymore what they did to him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to the Star Wars: The Old Republic "Encyclopedia", Akaavi Spar is aged 28 when she joins the Smuggler's crew. I have always felt comfortable seeing Akaavi as older than my own Gaibriel, too. But I couldn't quite wrap my head around her being 28 years-old, either. That would make her, in my own mind, almost ten years older than Gaibriel. I imagined her being half that much older, rather, so that Akaavi would be just five years older than Gaib.
> 
> The verd'goten is the term used by Mandalorians to describe the standard rite of passage that every young Mandalorian endures in order to prove themselves adults. While most Mandalorians will frown on a youngster going through a verd'goten at too young an age, they will be highly critical if a youth hasn't endured the rite by the end of their thirteenth year. Adults being adopted into the clans are also expected to perform a verd'goten, too.
> 
> The rite is intended to be a test of the young Mandalorian's skills to fight and survive against an enemy. That means it can take many forms, since a Mandalorian's enemies can be some terrible animal or even another warrior. The Mandalore asked the winner of his Great Hunt to perform a verd'goten against a Sith Spawn, for instance. My own Torian Cadera was slightly younger than the typical Mandalorian during his verd'goten. But that was because he didn't anticipate his mentor and foster-father being gored by a reek in a Geonosis arena and he rushed into the arena to confront the beast. He was just shy of his 13th birthday at the time.
> 
> Akaavi Spar was 13 years-old during her own verd'goten and I used this chance to describe what form it might have taken. Akaavi was raised on the planet of Kamar, which was a harsh and arid desert world inhabited by an insectoid race called Kamarians and various predators. Howlrunners were canine predators that had almost human-like bone shapes to their faces and they used terrifying howls to confuse the prey they hunted. Bloodsniffers worked in packs to bring down their prey, though. Bloodsniffers had spiked tongues they used to consume the blood of their prey, because their metabolisms burned off potassium too fast.
> 
> And finally, Gaibriel didn't have such an awesome 13th birthday, either. One could almost say it was a verd'goten of a sort.
> 
> Some Mandalorian terms, here:  
> Verd'goten - the rite of passage that proved a Mandalorian was an adult capable of fighting and surviving against an enemy.  
> Beskad - a Mandalorian saber, typically made from beskar or Mandalorian iron.  
> Adiik - a child between the ages of 3 and 13.  
> Buir - a parent, either father or mother. Mandalorians didn't differentiate between genders in their language.  
> Vheh'yaim - a temporary shelter or hut, typically made from dirt and wattle. A house.  
> Tiingilar - a blisteringly spicy Mandalorian casserole made from meat and vegetables.


	3. Giggledust

Gaibriel coughed loudly, and not a little dramatically, when the dust exploded out from the hole in front of them. The mess of dust and smoke swirled over and around his dark head, and he tossed his head backwards, laughing aloud. Eventually he chuckled, staring down into the dark hole that the master’s bomb had exposed. The other slave-born men gathered around him, pressing close enough that he huffed and pushed them back.

 Then Gaib pointed down at the opening, “See? I told you! It’s like descending into the ass of the planet itself! And hey! I’m the lucky little bastard who gets to see what shit is down there at the bottom." Several of the men snickered and one of them slapped his hand against the back of Gaibriel’s shoulder.

But Kinser just shook his graying head, "Boy, you've been doing too much of that giggledust. It's rottin' your head."

"Probably," Gaibriel hunkered down closer to the edge of the hole. He went about wrapping the thick fibrous cord around his waist even as he kept staring down into the darkness. He swiped the tip of his tongue across his upper lip, where the yellow line that came from regular doses of spice still lingered. "But I still look better while I rot than your sorry skinny ass of a self ever did, Kinser." The men all laughed delightedly.

But Kinser only knelt down alongside the hole, eyeing the tousle-haired youth steadily, his expression all gravely serious. He had known Gaibriel longer than any of the other men, anyway. Mostly because he had _lasted_ longer than any one else, so far. Including Gaibriel, actually. Gaib had been in the pens for only a couple of years, anyway. But none of that mattered, either.

Kinser knew what Gaibriel’s inveterate humor was supposed to accomplish. And keeping the slaves in the pens from flagging and just plain giving up was only barely part of the design. It wasn’t the first time Kinser wondered whether it was the boy’s mother or father who taught him the trick, either. But someone precious to the youngster showed him at one time, that laughing in the face of fear and anger and disappointment tended to be better than crying and trembling over it.

The rest of them were just lucky Gaibriel dragged them along his merry way, Kinser supposed.

They did a good job of using him, too. He was practically their group’s very own mascot, and they kept him close. Each of them laughed over his joking commentary and his playful antics; and he kept them properly entertained throughout the long, cruel days they spent digging through the ruins. Not that Gaib didn’t use them right back. The men certainly helped him, when they filched those extra rations he needed so much. Especially as his lean frame was starting to ease into that awkward stage of adolescence, where nothing seemed to fit quite right together and his legs and hands looked too large.

And it's not that Kinser disdained the slaves in the camps who relied upon the spices that made them feel good, either. Kinser didn’t care overmuch that the feel-goods were only pretend, even. Just some mere illusions of momentary pleasure that were made by whatever chemicals they ingested. What bothered Kinser was the sense of desperation that was driving Gaibriel closer and closer to real self-destruction.

Gaib was reckless, like he didn’t care over the simplest limits or rules that would keep him safe. He said precisely what he thought, too, and to whomever it was challenging him. Eventually, Kinser figured, some nasty bastard of a master would lop the kid’s head straight off his shoulders.

But in the meantime, Kinser just watched Gaib turn his young nose brightly yellow from the spice. He snorted softly, turning his head down towards the darkness as he tried hiding from the evidence of how much the boy was breaking apart on the inside. Kinser figured he was still fighting to save Gaibriel. Even now, and long after the blood on his stomach was wiped clean and his eyes seemingly danced with laughter. Kinser still felt like Gaibriel was slowly dying, right in front of his eyes this moment. Part of Kinser’s nagging apprehension came from Gaib's sheer youth, that he wasn't even full grown. No one should die so young, he thought. But it was more, too.

Gaibriel was … different. He was something new, and strange and so utterly unique to Kinser’s experience. Kinser was born and bred a slave in the Empire. He knew slaves and slavery, and he knew the masters and how to hide from their notice. Oh, Gaib insisted he was born from a slave woman, too. Sometimes Kinser even believed him. But that only made Kinser wonder who might claim to be Gaibriel’s father, too.

Because Kinser knew that Gaibriel didn’t belong in a pen, like he was a guide dog seeking out a prize maybe. He wasn’t supposed to slowly wither and die under the yoke, whipped by taskmasters and wardens. Kinser could almost feel the fire that was Gaibriel’s spirit and the freedom that always compelled him. He looked over at Gaib's lanky frame, at the slim body wrapped in rope as Gaibriel leaned out over the lip of the dark hole and prepared to descend. And Kinser knew – he _knew_! – that of all of them, it was Gaibriel who had a destiny that would carry him far past such dark places and frightening depths.

Kinser didn't want Gaib to become one of the nameless many who lost their lives in this place – didn't want him to be blown to bits in an explosion, or chomped to pieces by one of the beasts lurking down in the dark places, or twisted by the foul magics the Sith used when they'd made their monuments, here. Kinser ached whenever he even imagined the chance.

Gaibriel loosed his hold on the stone edges of the hole just then and he dropped down into the dark like a shot. He whooped as he went, crying out to the men, "Watch me fly! Yea! Flyyyiiinnnggg!" He continued to hum an absurdly funny ditty as he disappeared into the shadows below them, until even the stick-thin shape of him turned black and then vanished. The men held onto the rope, slowly lowering the boy down and down as he continued shouting back up at them and they chittered and choked back laughter, "I don’t see shit yet! We're doing good so far … hey! Watch the rope, youch! … It's pinching me right damned _there_! You guys trying to keep me from making babies someday?" He turned his voice appropriately high-pitched and whiny as he complained up towards them through the dark.

One of the men holding the rope chuckled thickly past his chortling throat, "I swear to the gods, I love that kid." Kinser snarled back at him, leaning his grey-haired head over the edge of the hole as he strained to see anything of Gaibriel down below, "If you have even a smidgeon of care for his welfare, then fucking concentrate on what you're doing, you oaf!"

Several of the men grunted and all of them hunkered down to the task at hand, then. They stayed ready to pull the youth back up out of the ground, while Kinser kept peering as deep into the dark as he could. He tried to catch sight of any sign Gaib was moving down below, maybe some light that might blink back up at them. But there wasn’t anything more than some brief twitches of the rope along the edging of the hole that showed Gaibriel was still alive and kicking down there.

Kinser was more troubled that Gaibriel was so quiet now. There were bad things which lurked in the darker shadows of these Sith ruins, Kinser thought, and he sighed as he considered some of the more violent episodes they’d endured running from the things. The planet of Bergeron was simply that much cruel, at least in Kinser’s limited understandings of the place.

Most of the slaves stayed quiet and used small lamps to keep the beasts at bay when they moved around the ruins. But Gaib never used such lights, not even when the taskmasters offered them. He claimed that the glow from the lamps only served to attract the more dangerous denizens of the ruins they scavenged, and that was why he avoided using them. But Kinser didn’t believe Gaibriel even needed a light device whenever he descended into the ruins, either. Mostly because he’d caught sight of the peculiar sheen to Gaibriel’s eyes, the way his bright blue irises shined with an actual iridescent hue in certain low lights.

Kinser was convinced that Gaibriel could see in the dark – he just knew it! That’s why the boy could maneuver down below without a lamp _and_ without making any sound, to boot. Gaibriel would easily catch sight of some beast before it could leap out at him, at least. Yea, Gaib was gifted. Kinser had wondered if Gaib had some sensitivity to Force powers, or maybe a bit of the stuff that leached out from the relics in the ruins, even. But then he thought Gaibriel was perhaps born with the ability.

All Kinser knew for certain was that whatever allowed Gaibriel to see in the dark, it just wasn’t something to blab about to everyone.  Slaves with unique abilities or skills were slaves put to use – and they were used _hard_ , too. They rarely survived whatever task they were put to working. No, Kinser wouldn’t go about doing that to Gaibriel.

So Kinser kept his attention squared on the opening into the ground for now, the concern on his face palpable as he waited. And he bit his lip as the men kept on joking together while they _all_ waited.

* * *

Gaibriel eased his head around the curve of another rock-lined doorway, gazing down the length of tunnel towards a distant space that emerged out into the wilds nearby the ruins. He inhaled slowly, looking towards that far off possibility of nebulous freedom. The rope around his waist suddenly felt so much heavier, the weight that held him in place. Because he was never allowed very far. If he tried stepping too far he'd be dragged back and punished severely for even trying that much.

But it seemed so much heavier right then. The weight bore down against his slim hips and then tighter around his middle. And tighter … until Gaib actually considered just sinking down into a heap right there on the ground. The despair beat against his flagging spirit. And then he started to gasp and pant - he was losing the last of his control as he struggled, struggled, and fought just to catch another breath.

The attacks were becoming more and more common. Maybe there would be come a point he wouldn’t able to catch air into his lungs anymore and his breathing really would stop. Would he only keel over to die right there on the spot? Then he wondered if it mattered. What difference would it make, really? Who would _care_? He wasn't anything important, anyway. He was only another lousy slave lost in the mire of Imperial slavery, one of them who broke himself against the demands of whatever master that directed him. Why did he even keep going on … well, that was the real question, wasn't it?

Which is why he continued fighting for his breaths, too. The attacks were prompted by more panic, until it beat at him like a sledge. Or at least until he sniffed more giggledust. That yellow shit made him calm, made his breaths come easier. It was the only stuff that kept him from just rolling over and calling it quits, at least for now. When the dust stopped working, maybe then he'd really just up and die. Well, that was a thought, huh? And why did it bring him such pleasure to contemplate it? Shouldn't he want to _live_? Why was there more comfort in the thought he could just stop trying? Shouldn’t he avoid giving up the fight for good?

Gaibriel panted softly, concentrating on his breaths until they were regular and calm again.

Then he turned away from the tunnel, and away from any promise of freedom, too. Because it simply wasn't going to come. Not ever. " _Find a way back to freedom_ ," she told him. Nerfshit, is what he thought. There wasn't any such thing, not for him. He would die here, in one of these wrecked temples the Sith made on Bergeron. And he’d call himself lucky when it happened, too.

So now he concentrated on the broken pillars and cracked flooring of the room the bombs had busted an opening into. He peered at the walls, examining the space for anything interesting. The pictures on the walls were intricate at least, and he padded over to one of the murals to examine it closer. It was a battle scene, one showing hard-armored figures fighting against lightsaber-wielding combatants. _Mandalorians_ , he surmised. He playfully pantomimed the shooting motions the warriors made in the painting. Then he turned away and scanned through the darkness again. He wasn’t able to discern the intricate colors describing the scene on the wall, regardless. Everything in the dark looked grey to him, or even silvery blue and pretty. But there wasn’t any color in his sight, not down here and nothing worth stopping to marvel at on the blasted wall, at least. He certainly couldn’t carry it off for selling.

The useless lamp thumped against his thigh and it made a small clink of sound in the wide open space, suddenly. He frowned, stopping to see if anything reacted to the sound. If anything moved or decided to come at him through the pale shadows, he would need to react quickly. But the room remained quiet, almost dead silent. _Maybe it's a tomb_ , he thought as he better secured the dim lamp against his thigh so it didn't swing too much. Kinser worried and nagged him the first few times Gaib refrained from turning the thing on. He told Kinser, “Maybe I’m just scared of bumping into a boogeyman down in the dark.” And he laughed when Kinser scoffed.

When Kinser stopped asking was when Gaibriel realized he must've seen some sign of his weirdness. But the old man stayed quiet about it, too. Gaib didn’t try making friends in the pens, because friends would be taken away from him in a heartbeat, given the chance. But he’d be lying if he didn’t admit he was grateful Kinser liked him that much, at least. The last thing Gaib wanted, was for Uxe to find out just how much his eyes were meddled with back in Tirk’s little playground of a lab. Uxe was a master at marketing the strange and weird to some seller, somewhere. And Gaib generally tried avoiding anymore sales of his own spiffy self.

He might end up sold to another bastard like Rend, and Gaib’s entire frame twitched as he considered his memories of the long-ago diplomat. If anyone deserved to be made deader than dead, it was Mister Imperial Diplomat Sylus Rend, and Gaibriel sometimes comforted himself imagining the chance he could have to make Rend a dead man.

But in the meantime, there was his warped seeing he had to deal with, though. Actually, it wasn't so much that he saw in the dark. Or at least not so clearly. It’s more, that he saw shades other humans didn't, or couldn't. Mind you, he wasn’t entirely sure what Tirk did to him in that lab to make his eyes all weird like that. All Gaib truly recalled was being pumped full of shitty drugs and jabbed with thinly-sharp scalpels galore, anyway. It could be how often they left him sitting in a damned cage outside on a world rife with sun-waves, too. But whatever Tirk did to his eyes, it wasn’t even the weirdest thing about him, either. So Gaib generally chalked the entire issue up as a minor bit of interesting nonsense and he moved right along. And now, he only huffed lightly to himself as he kept on scanning around the darkened shadows of the ruined room.

And there! Gaibriel suddenly caught sight of a twinkle in the low gloom of the place. He breathed in slowly as he approached the thing, because there was something off about it. The thing was … _not right_.

It was buried under some cracked rocks. As if it had been resting on a stone table that busted up into pieces over the years, maybe. Gaibriel pushed some of the debris from off it, and then he canted his head to the side as he studied the diamond-shaped … Actually, he wasn’t precisely sure what it was supposed to be, even. It wasn't a _good_ thing; he knew that much. It almost ached with something like a desire - it wanted to hurt people. Maybe it was alive, even.

Gaibriel shuddered lightly as the sense of it touched him. It crawled over his skin. It felt like someone was covering him with a dirty wet length of fabric. Like a sick blanket falling over his shoulders. Whatever the fuck it was, it was plain icky. Hey, maybe it would hurt _him_ , too. And who would even care about that, he thought snidely.

The question winged down his spine all over again. It trembled through him, and seemed to settle, almost rumbling slowly in some deep-down place inside his own self. Then he felt it building, like it was a bubbling pool of lava in his belly and just starting erupt. It was getting louder and louder. Until it seemed all he could hear was what the thing was whispering to him, what it was chanting. It filled his understanding and it demanded him, over and over.

Why go on, it said.  
Why keep fighting … why not give up?  
Just give up - why not? Do it! 

Until it seemed like a bell sounding in his ears over and over and over again. His head pounded slowly and Gaibriel felt the trickle of blood just under his nose. He was bleeding. Bleeding! No! Stop!

Gaibriel stopped suddenly, like a shot. His voice rose up over the knelling sound in his brain, until he was almost shouting into his own mind, " _You leave me alone! Get away!_ " He thrust up imaginary walls, huge ones! He built them up inside his mind, stone by stone like his sister once taught him would work. Until he felt like he was all wrapped up, safe and secure from whatever had tried to use his own fear and hopelessness so baldly. Gaibriel panted slowly, until his breaths were even and steady once again. He sniffed back the blood leaking slowly from his nose and wiped away the droplets from the small dip just over the top of his upper lip. He sneered down at the _thing_. He won! He beat it! Hah!

Then he yanked out a small, slender bag made from soft cloth. And he plucked the Sith thing from its little recess and dropped it down into the depths of the bag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There were actually many different forms of spice used and abused throughout the Star Wars galaxy. The term referred in fact, to a variety of different mind-altering drugs. The world of Kessel was rich in Spice, with slave labor used to harvest large supplies of ryll and, the most expensive, glitterstim. The drug was produced from the secretions of energy spiders on that world, and gathering it was very dangerous. The spiders could drain a man's life energy in seconds. Or the threads themselves were sharp enough to slice off fingers that didn't move fast enough when gathering them.
> 
> Giggledust was a Spice variant, though. It came from flowers rather than spiders. It produced a sense of euphoria in its users until everything seemed humorous, even the most dire of circumstances. It also heightened a user's sense of alertness, and some soldiers used the stuff before marching into battle. It made sense to me, that Gaibriel would rely upon various devices to get him through years of aching slavery. So I provided him an outlet here, in the form of giggledust. Won't be allowed to keep it, though. Poor Gaib. 
> 
> I deliberately made it a bit confusing, per Gaibriel's age here in this chapter. I wanted to emphasize Gaibriel's lack of good, healthy living by making it difficult to determine the truth of Gaib's age. To be clear, Gaibriel is fourteen at this point. But he's overly thin. Poor diet and drug use has kept him from really filling out. He'll more than make up for it and very quickly once he's freed. His diet will always include loads of fatty foods and rich drinks, once he has access enough.


	4. Off from Imperial Space

"Ah, hell. Why did I even agree to talk to you? Not only are you wasting my time now, you’re _annoying_ me," Wicks Duncan glared over at the skinny little rat fink of a figure sliding into the seat across from him.

Then he snorted towards the server, waving the man off. No way was he encouraging the scavenger stealing a seat at his table to stick around any longer than necessary.Wicks despised men like him. They didn’t make anything, or even move things. They were only parasites, just bloodsuckers leeching off the worlds they scrounged along. But this Miloh Uxe was a fool on top of all that. He used his slaves to loot the ruins of any world in the Stygian Caldera, looking for Sith artifacts. You didn't steal from the _Sith_. Not without paying a heavy price at least, Wicks thought.

 _I knew I should've just hopped back onto the hyperlane_ , Wicks thought to himself. He sighed dramatically, "I'm transporting hydroregulators from Tatooine to here on Jaguada, and believe me. Trading in Sith space's risky enough. More than one captain told me not to chance it. And yet here you are. Asking me to do even more." Miloh Uxe sniffed through a thin nose he pinched so tightly closed he should have difficulties drawing a spot of breath into those narrow nostrils. Maybe he could use a straw to open his breath-ways. The imaginary picture was amusing enough, at least. So Wicks pleasantly started lecturing him, "Hey, hydroregulators are important things on desert worlds. Brings water to local communities. You should learn the benefits of water. Makes for minor conveniences - like baths." He smiled tightly as the man's dirty, dusty face went even more rigid. If that was possible, anyway.

Then the boy who was lurking as unobtrusively as he could against the wall there behind Miloh choked on a brief laugh. Miloh shot a glance back at him, snarling like a mean, little rodent. He twisted the thin cord leading to the collar around the boy's neck and he yanked hard, and viciously, cruelly. The boy stumbled forward. Hells, he almost fell face forward onto the floor. But he caught himself, throwing one of his bare, dirty feet forward to keep from nose-planting straight onto the hard tiles of the cantina floor. He stiffened his young body then and shook his dark head, causing tendrils of his shaggy black hair to fall back from off his forehead. He did cough roughly several times, too, but he never once complained. He just fought to regain his lost breath, and he succeeded at that much.

Wicks frowned over at the boy, wondering how much he’d had to practice to make the entire motion look so easy and seem-less. He didn’t even appear overly worried he'd probably have to make the fight all over again. Damn it to the Hells. It _bothered_ him, to see a youngster fighting for the simplest of pride. But he wasn’t certain why he’d be so personally affected by what amounted to a rather simple offense, either. Hey, Wicks had seen far worse in his years of trading and smuggling across the hyperlanes. Enough that he long since set aside any real argument how he was a "good man."

What made for "good" and "bad" in men was often purely difficult to discern, or it varied by culture, mantra or belief system. Hell, look at these Imperials for one. All of them rushed around taking over worlds as if they were doing those people some damn favor. Wicks thought they even believed such crap. So why concern himself in the least over the welfare of any single slave, anywhere? That was just the way things were done on this world and in this place, so boo-hoo, right?

And yet … Wicks couldn’t really stop considering this young slave boy. He kept shooting glances at him, trying to figure out what it was about this kid to make his senses sting and his feelings burn in contradiction of every rule of thumb that saved him throughout the years. The boy wasn’t even overly unique. He was young enough, twelve or thirteen maybe. But then again, he was lanky and lean. Maybe he didn’t get a chance to eat much. Wicks narrowed his eyes then, trying to see more of the boy’s face. But the youth kept his head bent down so that Wicks only really had a chance to see the top of his dark head. His hair was black as the space Wicks flew through, actually. He stared down at those inky-black tendrils, almost willing him to look up. Just so he could see him, just so he might have the smallest glimpse … And then the boy swiveled his chin up that much fast.

So fast! Little more than a peeking slant of his eyes over at Wicks, before he dropped his gaze back down to the floor and his eyes disappeared again. But it was enough to stun Wicks into something like silence. His eyes! The boy's lashes were thick and just as black as the hair on top of his head. But that only highlighted his eyes even more. The boy’s eyes shined like a cat’s almost, and they were as blue as the bluest waters on Mon Calamar, too. They looked like stone-hard gems set in the boy’s face, and Wicks could almost swear he saw straight to his own heart in that merest, briefest glance of his eyes towards him.

But then he looked down again, and Wicks frowned. He may be a slave but he was nowhere close to stupid. His intelligence was as brilliantly sharp as the keenest glance of his eyes. Wicks actually wondered if the boy was stolen from some royal bloodline. Or maybe he was the product of a world where such things as genetics and heritage were worked like the meanest of crafts. He wasn’t looking to nab anyone’s attention, anyway. He was smarter than that. He certainly didn't want to be standing here in this damn cantina, either, and Wicks turned back to Miloh, grinning nastily, "Can’t jerk around anyone bigger than a half-starved kid, huh?" Wicks set his elbows against the edge of the table as he leaned forward over his plate of food and returned to eating, "You are not impressing me, Uxe. Believe me."

Miloh kept right on looking like he sucked up something bitter and sour. But he managed to shrug unconcernedly, "How I handle my property is not the business we need to discuss, though. I have a proposition for you."

Wicks raised his spoon to shovel some buttered tubers into his mouth, "I told you. I'm looking to offload some hydroregulators before getting my ass off the Kumat Aegit and back to friendlier space."

"Why would you refuse a payout like this one? I have a buyer for the item already! It only needs to be transported, from this small port to that one; hand it over and your job's done."

Wicks smoothed a hard gaze against Miloh's stiff figure, chewing his food as slowly as he could. Then he narrowed his eyes again, pointing towards Miloh with the end of his chunky spoon, "You really think the truth hasn’t reached us here? How many slaves have you lost already?” Behind Miloh’s head, Wicks saw the flash of the boy’s eyes again as he nodded his head so fast. Interesting, that the kid was willing to give him the warning. Most slaves ignored the welfare of anyone aside from another slave, and sometimes not even then. But Wicks kept his attention focused on Miloh right then, “And you said it was a Jedi I’d have to carry the thing _to_ , mind you. I'm no idiot, Miloh Uxe. That means she won’t be there to keep the thing from driving me as nutty as your faces-first into the ground people, heh? How many have killed themselves so far?"

Miloh shrugged his thin shoulders. He jerked the cord around the slave’s neck again, so that the boy stumbled into the side of the table and grunted. Miloh told him, "But that’s what the boy's for. He can safely carry the thing. Void's balls, he found it! It ruined the minds of my two best slave handlers and every one of the slaves penned with him within a few hours. But not Gaibriel! He’s been able to keep it safely in hand this entire while. He can give it over to the buyer safely enough."

Wicks looked towards the boy again, rolling the name through his mind several times. Gaibriel. It meant “hero of the gods". What sort of slave gave such a name to his child? Wicks snorted, even more certain that Gaibriel was never born into slavery. _Who’s looking for you, Gaibriel_ , was what Wicks wondered suddenly. But he only raised an eyebrow towards Miloh, "Why a Jedi, though? Why not a Sith? They’re closer, and they’d be eager to get one of their pretty baubles back, too."

Miloh actually blanched, until his skin looked the palest, white paste. Wicks considered poking his cheekbone, just to see if his skin was still there. But Miloh finally choked out, "Errr ... the Sith, yes. Well. Just ... this particular buyer offered a better price." Wicks actually laughed aloud this time, "What you mean to say, is any Sith worth the name will skin your hide if they find out you've been sending your slaves rooting around their ruins. While a Jedi would purchase one of the relics you found down there. And this thing is worth a tad more than the pretty rocks you usually manage to find, to boot. Am I right?"

Miloh flushed red with temper and clenched his teeth. But he didn’t say anything. Wicks supposed it was a good thing the man needed his help, or he might have bit off some pointed curses at least. Maybe he would’ve stomped off through the far door of the cantina, even. But Wicks knew what kind of bind Miloh Uxe was in, sitting there holding onto a Sith relic powerful enough to drive people around it insane and break their minds to pieces. He needed to rid himself of the creepy prize, and not only would none of the other freighter captains touch the chance of suffering the thing's effects. But none of them would be able to enter Republic space without being confronted and searched, from the top to the bottom of his ship, either.

Then Wicks caught sight of the slave again, saw Gaibriel rolling his eyes just before he stuck his tongue out towards Miloh's back. Wicks grunted to cover the laughing amusement he felt over the gesture. But then Miloh started to turn around and Wicks barked at him, “What's the pay, then? And don’t insult me. This thing is worth more than some load of hydroregulators. There are plenty of very expensive strings that need pulling just to get it into Pub space, too." Wicks grunted when Miloh named an impressive enough sum then. But he only shook his head like he was duly insulted, “That’s all? Do you really understand the risk I’m taking?”

Miloh’s mouth tightened. His lips looked as narrow and thin as his nose, suddenly. Wicks kept from laughing at him all over again, and he waited. Then Miloh gestured sharply towards the slave, “I’ll include the boy, too. Gaibriel is one of my best workers, a damned fine investment. His resale value is more than worth the risk you’re taking.”

Wicks leaned back, pretending to consider the proposal. Rather than admit he never intended to return Gaibriel if he managed to get him out the door and onto his freighter. Wicks only waved a hand towards the boy suddenly, "Come here, kid." Gaib looked nervously towards Miloh, who gestured impatiently enough. It bothered Wicks to see his nervousness, actually. How many times was he bought and sold, before someone as dirty and rough-edged as Miloh Uxe seemed a decent enough option?

Gaibriel slowly edged his way closer to the captain, leery of the big man's interest. He didn't flinch when Wicks reached out to grasp his chin, though. It spoke well of the boy’s audaciousness, actually. He wasn’t going to shy from the chance of a new master or a twist in his own experience, even if he was scared of both. Wicks turned the youth’s face up so he could finally examine him full in the face, and he grunted when he realized Gaibriel was older than he’d first supposed, although not by much. Gods, he didn't even need to cut hair from off his lip. Wicks wanted to snarl over at Uxe even harder, but he only bit the inside of his lip, instead.

Wicks grumbled, rubbing one finger across Gaibriel's upper lip, "He's a spicer."

"Get him cleaned up so his next owner doesn’t know, maybe. Would you need a supply of the stuff to get him to where he needs to be?"

Wicks didn’t drop the boy’s chin but he glared over at Miloh, "I don't hold with spice on my ship." Miloh sniffed unconcernedly and he shrugged, "Then don't give him any. I'm sure the craving will wear off eventually." Wicks just stared at him for a long moment. Then he felt Gaibriel’s chin tremble under his thick fingers, and he looked down into Gaib’s blue eyes. No, this was no stupid boy, Wicks thought. He knew _exactly_ how much it would hurt. It made him wonder why Gaibriel ever started ingesting spice if he was that aware, really. But then ... he really looked into the boy's eyes, and he looked hard. And that’s when he saw it.

The boy was on the very edge, standing there just barely hopeless. He was lost and more alone than anyone should be, and almost prepared to give up. Almost! Wicks had no doubt, that if he walked away Gaibriel would eventually tumble head-long right over that line into a real ending. And damn that chance, too! _What are you looking for, kid_ , Wicks wondered. "I have to assume you're not really aware how much that will hurt, Uxe. Nor even how much work it'll take me to get him cleaned up."

"Don’t think I’ll compensate you anymore than I’ve already offered, though! The boy is one of my best finders, so I’m already losing out when I offer him for you to keep."

Wicks nodded over at him, finally dropping Gaibriel’s chin from his hold so he could reach over and jab Miloh harshly right in the center of his thin chest. He just didn’t want to look at the hard, terrible look in Gaib’s blue eyes anymore, or the hint of enduring pain there. He only faced the sealing of the deal, rather, and he swore, "Just so we understand each other, Miloh. The boy won’t be coming back to Sith space."


	5. It Hurts!

He drifted through a mindless haze. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hide from the colors that swirled over his head and through his line of sight, a blurring mess of confused thoughts, strange dreams, and painful sounds. He whimpered and moaned. Where am I, he begged them. Anyone or someone, please make it stop … it _hurts_.

His gut twisted and then cramped, and he curled over onto his side, tears streaming down his face as he cried piteously. He begged and begged, "Make it stop!"

"Here. Drink this."

Gaibriel didn’t recognize the voice, though. It only added to the strange cacophony in his pained and twisted reality, and he rolled until he lay on his back again. He blinked up towards a strange and unfamiliar face that was suspended over his own, with large black eyes set deep under thick, bushy eyebrows that were staring down at him. The stranger’s brown hair was spiked up into messy tangles, as if he was running his fingers through the thick length over and over. Gaib groaned loudly. You're worried, about what?

"Drink this, kid. Yea, it’s you I'm worried about. We need to get some liquid down your throat. Come on, kid … I know you’re tough enough to get through this."

He felt the trickle of water against his parched lips and then cool liquid dripped down to soak the back of his throat. He swallowed, and the man above him hummed a satisfied sound. Then knots of pain twisted his stomach again. It felt like someone was pulling his intestines back and forth, inside and out. He screamed.

Everything turned black.

_The rain slapped him in the face as he stood behind his mother. The big men were waiting in front of the spaceport doors, grinning widely back at them. Tamerie's light brown braids swung against her shoulders as she bent her head down wearily, whispering sadly, "Damn you, Karen."_

_Then Kastiel whimpered an apologetic sound, "Sorry!" She darted forward suddenly, slipping past Tamerie before she could catch her. Gaib's blue eyes turned wide and shocked in his face as he watched his sister running towards the big men, leaping at them to start pummeling them with her little fists._

_Tamerie spun around, grabbing against Gaibriel's shoulders so that he looked up into her blue eyes. Deep blue, like the dusky sky over Kaas City behind her head. Like his own eyes, too. But she just shook him roughly, demanding adamantly, "Gaib! You take Cam and you hide! Do you hear me? You hide! We’ll find you. We_ will _! Now go!"_

_Camiel cried there beside him, "No! Mam, no!"_

_But Tamerie was gone then. She rushed towards the violent group intently, yelling at the men to let loose of her daughter. They were holding Kastiel up, one of them clenching her neck in his meaty fist so that she was actually suspended in the air. He was shaking Kas back and forth while she choked hard enough her gurgling cries filled the air._

_Gaib just stood there. He was frozen in terrified fascination for several long, painful moments.  
Then he moved._

Gaibriel gasped and rolled onto his side until his head hung out over the side of the bed. A large hand guided his head over a large metal bucket of some kind. Gaib vomited endlessly, choking loudly, "It hurts! It hurts so bad!"

"I know, kid. I know it hurts. We just need to get all of it out of there, and then we'll replace it with some good stuff. Real food, ‘stead of dust. That's what you've been using, right?"

Gaib turned away from him. His eyes felt gritty and strange, like they were sitting on his face instead of a part of it. He groaned and then he coughed, burying his head under the edge of blanket to try stopping the swirling mess of colors that danced in front of his face. It didn’t help, though, and the dissonance just made his head pound even harder. He leaned his head up again, looking up at the man above him and blinking wearily, "Your eyes are dark, like my father’s. But ye’re not my father. He's dead, I think."

"Why do you _think_ so? Wouldn’t you know for sure?"

Gaib was so confused. His head swam sickeningly, and he moaned out, "He would've come for us - found us! He fought the Republic at Coruscant! But … we can't tell anyone that. His wife … she's mad! She'll kill us! So we have to hide from her!"

The man shook his head sadly, "I'll not tell anyone where to find you. I swear it."

Gaibriel looked up at him through watery eyes and watched the man's face blur into weird, wavering shapes in his vision. "No! Can't believe you. I won’t! ‘Cause no one gives a shit about me - no one cares! I’d rather be … just be alone."

The man leaned forward, his dark eyes narrowed and intent. "Well, doesn’t seem like you’ve been getting much of whatever you’d ‘rather’ for a long time now, either.” He shrugged his thick shoulders, “Look, kid. We've got better things to do than sit here while you puke out your guts."

Gaibriel curled his mouth into a sour twist. Right then, he felt another cramp ripple through his stomach. He looked down the length of his torso, aching with tiredness, and he blinked. His skin was wriggling! Like there was something bad inside of his body, something moving! Bugs! He was infested with bugs!

He began scratching at his skin, screaming. The man cursed loudly and grabbed him close against his own large chest, holding Gaibriel tightly so that he couldn't tear his own skin to shreds. Gaib screamed and screamed and screamed.

 _Tamerie lay in a bloody heap against the ground. His mother! There was so much blood, Gaib thought. He could feel the whimper of shock and pain welling up inside, the terror of the moment. He whispered, achingly, "They're_ gone _." People moved around them in wild flurries of motion. He heard them crying out weary calls for wounded people to drag themselves upright once again and then cries of pain when they couldn't._

_He watched, bemused. The young boy with yellow hair who huddled behind the crate with them was now trotting around the mess and debris, hunting among the lumps of smoking ruin for any signs of life._

_But all Gaibriel saw was the shattered thing that used to be his mother. He felt broken and alone, whispered again, "Mam … Kas. Not you, Kas." But no one heard him and no one cared. He was utterly terrified, screaming inside his head. And none of them even cared! No one came to help them. No one offered them a single hand. No grown-up person even saw him standing there, next to his own twin._

_Then Camiel slid her little hand into his and he looked at her. She was tugging at him, insisting, "We can't stay here, Gaib! They’ll find us!" He let her pull him through the doors of the spaceport, then._

They were arguing over his head, both of them. Gaibriel cracked open his eyes and he looked up to see the man – Duncan! He was called Duncan! He remembered him – the freighter captain called Wicks Duncan. Now he was standing above Gaibriel’s bedside and arguing with a slim-figured man, as he leaned down over Gaib’s weak form on the bed. Gaibriel looked at the stranger, examined his dark face liberally covered in a bright, garish tattoo that curled up and over his brow.

"Nikki, damn it! You're fucking bruising him on top of everything else. Why the hell aren't you flying the damn ship, for crying out loud?"

"Shut up, Wicks. If we don't get food down him, he's going to die right here on this fucking-ass gross bed.” The fellow called Nikki gestured impatiently towards the door, his lip curling, “Shit, try making yourself useful and go get me some clean sheets for the bed. The boy isn't going to improve laying here in puddles of sweat. And puke too, from the looks of it."

Wicks harrumphed and moved out from Gaibriel’s line of sight. Gaib whimpered as a curl of pain winged its way through his empty stomach then and Nikki snapped his gaze back to Gaib's face, saw his blue eyes were open to pained slits. Nikki smiled, "Well. Looks like you're aware. That's a good sign, at least."

"Water."

"O’course." Andronikus turned. He reached across the bed for a fiberplastic cup set on a nearby table that had been kept full of fresh water through the course of the past week. Then he held the cup up to Gaibriel's lips, motioning for him to drink, "All of it. If you can, anyway. You’ve been sweating and shaking enough to soak the blasted bed. Here's hoping you got all the dust out of your system, at least."

Gaibriel shuddered violently. He gagged but there wasn’t anything left in his stomach worth losing. So the back of his throat burned. But he choked out enough of a complaint, protesting, "Dust. No. Not ever again."

Andronikus chuckled, "Yea. I bet it’s kind of hard to think about poisoning yourself after you spend a solid week puking your guts out across a freighter cot. Just don't puke on _me_ , okay? Wait till Wicks comes back and then puke all over _him_ , just for asking me to come here and help with the piloting. This is a damn do-gooder piece of work, if you ask me."

Gaibriel's response came out dry and scratchy. But it showed Nikki just enough he was able to understand Gaib's intrinsic nature, too. Gaib rasped out, "If I was to ask you anything, it would be why the hell did you beat me with a stick while I was passed out, here. Shit, I really do feel like a big bruised mess of hurts. Wouldn’t you have more fun flying ships around?"

Andronikus laughed, a real hearty bellow of laughter as he regarded the boy's weak, abused frame there on the bed, "Yea, I 'magine you're feeling like a punching bag right now. Again, though. If you're going to blame anyone, blame Wicks. I like it better when my cousin is blamed ‘stead of me."

Wicks barked at him then, "Oh, leave off, Nikki. Go fly away somewhere. You're good at that." Wicks reappeared. He looked down at Gaibriel as he dropped a pile of fresh sheets and covers onto the chair nearby the bed, and he hummed thoughtfully. "Well then. It’s ‘bout time you were aware, Gaibriel Shorn. You need to be eating real food, then."

Gaibriel's gaze sharpened, until his blue eyes gleamed up at them both like polished glass. He glared, "I’m not … don't call me that! I’m just … Gaib."

Wicks crossed his arms across his chest, staring back at him considering, "Well. Where we're going you can't be Just Gaib. Things just don’t work like that." Gaibriel pursed his lips tightly shut and he turned his gaze away from the two men, complaining, "I'm tired."

Wicks stood there, quiet and contemplative. Andronikus leaned against one of the nearby walls, smiling with amusement at the silent battle of wills between the captain and the boy. But then Wicks nodded his head firmly and he asserted with determined firmness. Like he was publicly declaring it, maybe. And Andronikus Revel gaped at his cousin for the temerity of it.

Wicks announced, "Then you call yourself Duncan. Gaibriel Duncan. Most people will assume you're mine, regardless. So we might as well get us off on the right foot, huh?"

_Gaib stared up at the looming figure of the beefy ship's captain with wide, terrified eyes. The man was human, of course. His hair hung down to his shoulders in a series of twisted blonde braids. He was wearing a grease-splattered set of overalls to cover his bulging belly as he harrumphed down at them, as they huddled together behind a series of boxes and crates there in the cargo hold._

_A week's worth of hiding and scrounging. All of it undone by nothing more extraordinary than the mere scrape of Gaibriel's shoe against the side of a box. Now he shook in terror as he looked up at the man._

_"Well. Look at why my stores are running spare so quick. Stiven! Come get these little rats out of my cargo hold!" The man leaned down until his nose nearly bumped up against the brief bump of Gaibriel’s little nose, "Ye’re gonna pay for every damn thing ye've nabbed from the mess during these past days, little rat. The two of you should make for a decent enough sale."_

"What the hell are you doing, Wicks?" Andronikus leaned his hip against a console as he stared at the captain. He looked purely confused. But Wicks only chuckled as he leaned down over the galaxy map to plot a course to return Nikki to his own vessel. Wicks shrugged, "Hey, if you manage to figure it out, you let me know. That boy's been befuddling every decision-making process in my head for days on end."

Andronikus peered out the viewscreen of the bridge, pensive, "There's something about him …"

Wicks sighed. He straightened so he could look over at his cousin, and he admitted, "I like him, Nikki. He's a fighter. And he really doesn't belong with a fucking collar around his neck. That’s enough for now, I think."

 

**Author's Note:**

> All characters are property of Bioware and EA, no matter how much I might wish differently. Kudos to those Bioware writers who created such exceptional stories. Please please keep up the excellent work! You guys rock!


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